


and flowers might wilt when we walk past

by nahiko



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Family Issues, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Induced Vomiting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Minor Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Psychological, Sad, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahiko/pseuds/nahiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t eat because you’re not hungry, you don’t eat because you’re not hungry, you don’t eat because you’re not hungry.<br/>(<i>you don’t eat because you tell yourself you’re not hungry</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Walking Disasters, by The Wombats. Also, I like figures of speech much more than I probably should, and tags will be added as (and if) the work progresses.
> 
> This was supposed to be a short story about Tsukishima being too thin (he's almost underweight), but when I realized, there was already a plot and a whole background of nothing but angst. This has been standing on my draft for a while now, since I heavily considered not writing it (eating disorder is a theme that hits dangerously close to home to me), but in the end, I figured out I couldn't let it there for too long. The idea wouldn't leave me alone, and I'm too stressed with school to deal with my own struggles right now.
> 
> If I do end up writing a second chapter (I don't know if I'll be able to finish this), it won't be in second person POV anymore.
> 
> Please, forgive me for any typos and for my bluntness. If you think I should tag anything more, just let me know.

You don’t eat. You don’t eat because you’re worried. You don’t eat because you’re not hungry.

(you don’t eat because other kids give you weird looks and maybe if you stop growing up you’ll stop being stared at, maybe if you stop growing up you’ll stop standing out, maybe you’ll stop, maybe it’ll stop, maybe, maybe)

 

* * *

 

_Yamaguchi shares his lunch with you and you thank him, thank him, but you’ll never tell him you think about his freckled face with a smile on your lips when you’re going to sleep — because he makes you feel as if it doesn’t matter, as if it doesn’t matter, he accepts you, he admires you, he‒_

 

* * *

 

You don’t eat. You don’t eat because everything you try to put on your stomach is coming back up your throat, and you don’t like the acid taste at the tip of your tongue. You don’t eat because you’re not hungry.

(Akiteru’s eyes are haunted by the lies he told you, and you’re haunted by the lies he told you, too, but you close up your face and pretend it doesn’t happen)

 

* * *

 

_He tries and tries and tries but you’re hurt, you’re young and you’re hurt, and all your childish dreams were shattered in front of your eyes because Nii-san’s a liar, he’s a liar, liar, liar, he was lying, everything he told you — nothing but lies and lies and lies, the stupid little brother who could not, can not, will not stand the truth._

 

* * *

 

You don’t eat. You don’t eat because just looking at the food makes you physically ill, makes you wish you could rest your head over your arms and stay like that all day, all day, pretending your stomach isn’t turning, your heart isn’t sinking, pretending you’re not feeling as if nothing will ever matter anymore because you trusted him you trusted him he betrayed you god you hate it so much.

(but you love him so much, you love him so much because he’s your brother and he’s your hero, he’s the one you would always look up to, he’s the one you wanted to be, you admired him, you loved him, you love him and it just hurts so much you want it to stop)

 

* * *

 

_Yamaguchi offers to share his lunch with you (again), but you don’t want him to — stained hands you washed up on your own tears, the salty taste of blood from when you bit your own mouth trying to hold in the sobs; he doesn’t deserve the mess you are, because that’s what you are, maybe were, will always be._

 

* * *

 

You don’t eat and mom says you’re too thin. You don’t eat and dad says you’re growing up too fast. You don’t eat and Akiteru watches you from afar, and a part of you wonder if he knows.

(you’re sure he knows, he always knows, but you pretend he doesn’t, and he wants to make it up to you somehow so he pretends he doesn’t and both of you act as if it’s not happening)

 

* * *

 

_You know he knows because he tries buying your favourite strawberry cake from the bakery down the street and you eat it, you eat it because you want to eat it, you want so much, you want to forgive him, you want him to forgive you, you want to stop hurting — but you throw it up when no one’s looking for you, and your stomach is empty again, and you feel even worse than you did before, because Nii-san’s eyes are hopeful and you don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not working, you don’t have the heart to talk to him._

 

* * *

 

You don’t eat. You don’t eat because you’re not hungry, and you hide in the word of chords of the first song that broke your heart. You don’t eat because you’re not hungry, and your handwriting is the best in class from the amount of times you scribbled your favourite lyrics in your math books. You don’t eat because you’re not hungry, and you order and reorder your dinosaur figurines on your shelf, again, again, again, until you feel they’re good enough (they’re not and you have to do it again).

You don’t eat because you’re not hungry, you don’t eat because you’re not hungry, you don’t eat because you’re not hungry.

(you don’t eat because you tell yourself you’re not hungry)

 

* * *

 

_It doesn’t matter what were your reasons before — you still grow up to be taller and taller, thinner and thinner, long slim legs and pale arms, and you hate it so much, hate it so much, hate it so much you want to scream until you have no voice anymore until you can rip your heart out of your chest because maybe then it’ll start making sense and you’ll stop hating hating, **hate is tearing you apart**._

xxx

 

You feel the sun rising before its rays of sunshine trespass the thin fabric of your curtains — with the beginning of the day comes a restlessness that settles in your bones, your body aching, your eyes burning as if you spent the night crying (you didn’t, but you didn’t get any sleep, either). In the back of your mind, you wonder briefly what time there may be, but you have no wish to search for your cell phone, or to sit and stretch your arm off under the blanket and get the clock on your bed table.

You’re not comfortable, but you don’t want to move, not yet. The perspective of today isn’t appealing, and your heart stutters. You’re resisting the urge to crunch your face, to turn your hands into fists and dig your nails in your palms with as much anger as you can make yourself feel right now.

You don’t want to. Don’t want to get up. Don’t want to go to school because you hate it, you hate it so much, and you don’t even need a reason to — you know how high school works, you know what to expect, and you have no wish to deal with annoying classmates and homework and responsibilities. Most of all, you don’t want to face another day with all the burning hate consuming you, making you angry and spilling venomous things to the very end at the tiniest bit of provoking.

You’re not even sorry anymore. Everything you wish you could do right now was to stay — until night comes again and again and again and the whole world explodes or whatever.

 

(whatever, whatever)  
(you skip breakfast that morning)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamaguchi Tadashi was a boy with pink coloured cheeks and a laugh that, for anyone you could ask for, resembled sunflowers and blossoming sakuras and lazy spring afternoons laying on the grass.  
> (but that was before he started to break)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM THOROUGHLY CONFUSED. Like. Wow. The amount of times I stared at the laptop screen, asking myself whether someone really had read the story, or if it was just some sort of strange dream (I have a lot of those), is alarming. You are amazing ( p_q) all of you (∗∕ ∕•̥̥̥̥∕ω∕•̥̥̥̥∕)
> 
> Now, talking about the chapter. When you read it, you'll see that Yamaguchi thinks about Tsukishima a lot. It wasn't my intention, since this chapter was supposed to focus on Yamaguchi only, but then I realized that I couldn't write about him alone. Tsukishima is an important part of his life, and his friendship means a lot. Previous chapter, it also wasn't my intention to let Yamaguchi so "out of vision", but since I was already writing in second person pov, I wanted to focus on Tsukishima's _feelings_ more, which doesn't necessarily imply how he sees people around him.
> 
> Also, just in case this gets anyone confused, the story follows the Japanese Education System. In other words:  
>  **Elementary School:**  
>  1st grade: 6-7 years  
> 2nd grade: 7-8 years  
> 3rd grade: 8-9 years  
> 4th grade: 9-10 years  
> 5th grade: 10-11 years  
> 6th grade: 11-12 years
> 
> **Junior High School:**  
>  1st grade: 12-13 years  
> 2nd grade: 13-14 years  
> 3rd grade: 14-15 years
> 
> **High School:**  
>  1st grade: 15-16 years (current time)  
> 2nd grade: 16-17 years  
> 3rd grade: 17-18 years
> 
> Still, if anyone gets confused, you can ask me. 
> 
> In regards the past of the characters, I'll try to write bit by bit the canon divergences, but if you think anything could be better explained (considering a few things I'll still write more about), just tell me.
> 
> Aaand, information, information: a few tags were added. (and the typos keep hiding from me ~~help~~ )
> 
> ~~P.S.: I don't know how to socialize. I'm the awkward potato at the corner of the room. Please, forgive me.~~

Yamaguchi Tadashi was a boy with pink coloured cheeks and a laugh that, for anyone you could ask for, resembled sunflowers and blossoming sakuras and lazy spring afternoons laying on the grass — a laugh that resembled fireworks and happiness and colourfully painted canvas spread all over the floor. He had a kindness in him, something different, something special, that used to drawn people closer, that used to make other kids want to play with him and his parents smile like if he was their own miracle.

That was before, of course. Before kindness somehow started meaning he was weak, before other boys he knew didn’t want to play with him anymore, before he started getting mocked and stared at. It was before uncle Hideki died in a car accident, and aunt Yamoto started drinking; before dad stopped showing up on lunch and diner because of his work, and mom cried and cried, and then took sleeping pills not to wake up.

That was before Yamaguchi started to break.

 

* * *

 

He met Tsukki — Tsukishima, at time — when he was ten and crying in boy’s bathroom after some kids pushed him to the ground and told him he couldn’t play with them because they were playing boy’s games (which was stupid, because _everyone_ was playing, and not only boys).

Tsukki was from his class, the tallest kid in it. Yamaguchi never had really talked with him, but he knew Tsukki had a bad way with words, because more often than not, the teacher would pull him out on a corner and talk to him in a quiet, hushed tone, while some more sensitive kid cried for something he had told them with that bored voice of his. That being said, Yamaguchi also knew that Tsukki was quite lonely, even though he didn’t seem bothered by it — when his words didn’t scare anyone away, his height did.

It was easy being intimidated by him, and Yamaguchi could understand the feeling. He just wanted to cry his eyes out and be alone, and perhaps never come to school again, and he had not been expecting to be caught by none other than the least probable person to care.

Surprisingly enough, though, when Tsukishima spotted him, he stopped by and stared at Yamaguchi in a mixture of curiosity and boredom.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, more kind of demanded, as if Yamaguchi owed him answers.

Tadashi hated him in that moment. Hated him for being so indifferent, for being so cold, for being so apparently full of himself that he thought Yamaguchi owed him anything when they never even did talk.

But the hatred disappeared as soon as he looked at the blonde through eyes full of tears, and couldn’t really find his voice to tell Tsukishima to go away. He had never liked being unfair, and if he lashed out on Tsukishima just because he was _angry_ , he surely would regret it and feel guilty later.

Not wanting to add another thing on his list of reasons why he didn’t want to ever set foot in school again, Yamaguchi shrugged off, and expected Tsukishima to go away.

He didn’t.

“Was it Sora and the other boys?” Tsukishima asked instead, and Yamaguchi caught a glimpse of what might have been a tentative worry.

Everyone knew about him and the other boys from class. The other kids, who didn’t care, and the teacher, who said it wasn’t meant to hurt him, that they were just boys growing up and feeling the necessity of being rough with each other, that Tadashi should just brush it off and live his life, that (Yamaguchi hated her).

It was no use answering, then, since Tsukishima already knew, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

There was another moment in which none of them said anything.

“Pathetic.” Tsukishima finally stated in a quiet tone, and Yamaguchi didn’t know whether it was directed at him, or the other boys.

He didn’t want to know.

(they sat together next morning class)

 

* * *

 

Yamaguchi had his first heartbreak when he was twelve. There was this gorgeous, gorgeous boy ( _he had told dad it was a girl_ ) from his class, and he had big, beautiful blue eyes, and messy brown hair that he was always running his hands through (it looked so soft). But said boy didn’t want anything with him (not that anyone else did — maybe, just maybe, Tsukki; they had been hanging out together for a while, but he still couldn’t really say), and made it clear. A lot of times. Kind of. It wasn’t even that Yamaguchi liked to suffer (he didn’t), he just felt like that boy was _the one._ A lot of people think alike when they first fall in love and there was something that kept him crushing, crushing _hard_ , even when he cried until he fell asleep every night — the words echoing in his head, how _weak_ and _alone_ he was, how no one cared, no one would ever care about him.

He knew it was stupid to think he wouldn’t face cruelty, but Yamaguchi had hope. He clutched to it, and hid it deep down his heart, believing that things could be better, that they could (believing that the hard eyes would turn soft somehow, and it would stop hurting).

They didn’t, and his first kiss was stolen just to prove a point — they called him names and they made him feel so stupid, so _stupid_ , so hopeless, so _used_ , so _worthless_. He had been so delusional, all that time, and the raw, naked truth, made him bleed inside, made the tears climb their way out of his eyes, running through his cheeks, made him _empty_.

But they laughed. They laughed as he quietly cried, and the other kids laughed too, and he wanted to run away, wanted to _run away_ , but his feet somehow managed not to let him, somehow managed to get him stuck to the ground, as if they were chains, grinding him, binding him, _holding him down_ as his childish hope and heart were torn apart.

That was when Tsukki walked in on the scene, his pacing slow, his hands hidden in his pockets. Yamaguchi expected him to laugh too — they weren’t _friends_ , not really, after all, and even though Yamaguchi liked him, he knew Tsukki was mean on a good day, and more than cruel on a bad one.

But instead of laughing, Tsukki, tall and thin and usually indifferent Tsukki, punched the boy (the boy with the dark locks, the messy brown hair, the big blue eyes, the boy that Yamaguchi was crushing on)  in the face and told the others to fuck off.

(and because he was taller than the tallest of the kids from their class, because he didn’t mind what they told him no matter how _cruel_ they could be, because he had cold, sharp anger building up in his golden eyes, no one wanted to try and mess with him)

Yamaguchi stared at him in mute shock, as waves of thankfulness drowned him, and didn’t knew whether to take the chance and run away, or to hug the blond on impulse — he ended up doing none, since Kei turned to him, grabbed his arm, and started walking away with slightly furrowed brows.

It was the one time another person stood up for Yamaguchi — he told himself it was the last time he needed someone to.

(Tsukki’s eyes were softer than they had ever been)

 

* * *

 

2nd grade came and gone, and Yamaguchi didn’t make any new friends. Not that he didn’t try, but it didn’t make him any desperate to know that people still didn’t want him around. He had Tsukki, be it on the good or bad days, and that was okay.

For a while.

It was okay until work started stressing dad ( _again_ ). It was okay until Yamaguchi entered the kitchen late at night to find his stepmother crying ( _again, again, again_ ). It was okay until he had to hid his face between pillows ( _"_ _he’s just a kid!"_ ) to stop the screams.

It was okay until the day Tsukki stared at him with concerned eyes and Yamaguchi shrugged it off with a smile ( _he’s so clumsy, how would anyone hit their faces in a drawer, anyway?_ ). And Tsukki didn’t believe it, not for a second, but he was never good at making Yamaguchi tell him things he didn’t want to tell.

Eventually, it got better. But every night, when he went to his bedroom, his bed, and tried to sleep, Yamaguchi would still feel the ghosts of the bruises dad’s hand had left. Every night he would be haunted by his stepmother’s silent sobs as she caressed his hair.

_He was a boy_ , dad had said, _a boy, a boy, not a girl, and he should act like one_. And Yamaguchi couldn’t understand why his voice could make him sound so _angry_ , when he still looked so _scared_. His words were empty, and they didn’t make any sense.

Yamaguchi’s stepmother had told him it was her fault. Hers, hers, and only hers. If only she had kept her mouth shut! But, oh, no… No, no, no, she had to tell… She had to tell and make dad angry, and…!

Yamaguchi couldn’t see what was of so wrong about it all. It was just Tsukki. His best friend — Tsukki, with curly hair and golden eyes. Just Tsukki, with pale hands and, _oh, so much hate, confusion, just **so much** hidden under his skin_. When did Yamaguchi get it so wrong dad started to want them to be apart? Tsukki never did _anything_. They didn’t talk about 5th grade, Yamaguchi didn’t have any reason to do so, and even though Tsukki never seemed to be _bothered_ by the fact that Yamaguchi had kissed a _boy_ , he never seemed interested in kissing Yamaguchi, either — and it was… Okay.

But… Maybe... Maybe Tadashi was just broken. It would make sense, right? Because broken pieces don’t fit anywhere. They don’t belong ( _just like him_ ). He could be lost in his own mind, waves and waves of thought that betrayed him over and over and over at night — _broken, broken, broken_.

 

(he had wanted to ask Tsukki; to tell him about his doubts, about his fears, about _dad, about everything_ — he had wanted Tsukki to hold him again in that way that made him feel _safe_ , and he had wanted Tsukki to shrug it off and say " _I don't mind what your father says_ ", and he had wanted Tsukki to say they were still going to be together no matter what)

(he never asked for any of those things)

(2nd grade came and gone, and Yamaguchi cried himself to sleep)

 

* * *

 

3rd grade started, and Yamaguchi’s worries came back full force — but not about himself, never again about himself.

Tsukki had high cheekbones and too pale skin, bony shoulders and bony fingers, his frame thinner by day. Yamaguchi didn’t think he even realized it, even when his body trembled and his lips lost all color, even as his knuckles turned white as he clung on to the nearest surface, trying not to lose his balance.

Tsukki didn’t realize a lot of things. The way his eyes often were dull, his mind somewhere else, the way he wore the scowl stuck on his face like if he wore a shield. It could be the music — his earphones, that he cherished, were big and expensive ones, treated with as much as care as he could master, always safely close —, but Yamaguchi felt like that wasn’t the case.

Then, he learned not to ask.

Not that Tsukki reacted aggressively, or cruel in any way. But the way he widened his eyes and his whole body froze, the way disgust and betrayal and _so much hate_ filled up his iris, how his fingers twitched and yet he didn’t move — he looked more fragile than he ever did, and it frightened Yamaguchi; it frightened him to see his friend, whom he thought was so strong, so unreachable, look like if Tadashi could tear him to pieces with his words.

Instead, they just stared at each other for what felt like an impossibly long amount of time. Eventually, though, Yamaguchi’s eyes fell to the floor.

He wasn’t able to face the shame slowly blending to Tsukki’s face. He couldn’t face the utterly loathing in there — he didn’t know, he didn’t know, was Tsukki starting to hate _him_ or _himself_? Both of them were equally heartwrenching possibilities.

“Go away”, Tsukki finally spat, bitter.

Yamaguchi shook his head.

“What…” his friend seemed to choke on his own words. “What do you _want_ , uh, Yamaguchi?”

There was another minute of silence.

“Tsk. Go away”.

“Tsukki…” Yamaguchi rose his head, tentatively reaching to his friend, but Tsukki snapped his hand away.

“Leave me alone!”

“T‒”

“I said to go! Don’t you hear a word I say? Leave me the fuck alone!”

Yamaguchi didn’t move.

He could see hate slowly starting to eat the rest of patience Tsukki still had. He could see it in the way his lips shut tightly, his own hands turning to fists, his shoulders tensing. But he could, more than see, _sense_ sadness, too, radiating off him, and knowing he was hurting made Tadashi wish he could understand.

He could not.

But Tsukishima Kei was his friend, perhaps the only person that, even when mean, didn’t make Yamaguchi feel like he didn’t deserve to be loved. Tsukishima Kei was a boy who had icy golden eyes and a smirk permanently plastered on his face, and he didn’t deserve to be exposed in his vulnerability for anyone to see, especially if he didn’t _want_ them to see — and Tadashi loved him.

Then, he didn’t mind when Tsukki looked at him with nothing but blind rage and opened his mouth to twist his tongue in an attempted to do the only thing he could to protect himself: frighten him with his carefully picked words bathed in venom.

He really didn’t mind, not when Tsukki’s hands clutched to his shirt, trembling, as he muttered, still trying to make Yamaguchi go away.

“ _I hate you_ ”, he had said, his voice quiet and breaking, threatening to fail, “ _hate you, **hate** you_.”

( _broken, broken, broken_ , Yamaguchi’s mind had whispered back)

 

3rd grade started, and Yamaguchi had found his best friend throwing up in one of the bathrooms of their school.

(3rd grade ended, and they didn’t talk about it)

 

xxx

 

He is up before the alarm clock starts ringing. Earlier than needed, indeed, but he feels better this way — as if waking up before the settled time has anything to do with gaining control over anything in his life.

Yamaguchi closes his eyes and thinks over the possibility of skipping first day of school. He knows he can’t, because he would never let himself, but it’s good to pretend for a moment. It almost manages to make him feel good — attempting to lie and tell himself this time will be different.

It’s never different.

Yamaguchi sighs, but rubs his eyes nonetheless and catches his bag, heading to the kitchen in the first floor.

“Morning”, he tells his stepmother, and she greets him with a warm smile, having just finished putting up breakfast on the table. “You could’ve waited.” he comments, softly, sitting on the first free chair. “I would’ve helped.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it, dear.”

She sits on the nearest chair, and takes his hand between hers.

“How are you?”

Dad is nowhere to be seen, and Yamaguchi doesn’t hear any sound coming from up the stairs.

Somewhat hesitantly, he tilts his head and smiles at her.

“Nervous.” Yamaguchi admits.

“Don’t....” it’s her time to hesitate. She looks a bit distressed, as if trying to decide what to do before finally settling for “You’ll be okay.”

This is the closest thing Yamaguchi will have as a comfort. Neither of them have ever been any good at words.

It’s nice to know she cares enough, though.

“Thank you, mom”.

 

(he folds a few toasts in a napkin when she’s not looking, and hides it in his bag)

(later, he remembers, he’ll need it later)

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima’s almost afraid that one day he’ll push too hard and Tadashi will stop searching for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I wanted to thank you all for the feedback on the last chapter (///∇///) ~~I’m still an awkward potato sitting at the corner, but I’m a happy potato (ignore this talk about potatoes)~~
> 
> I’m literally at the beginning of the story, and already thinking about how it’ll end. Can it be considered a good thing? I hope it does.  
> Anyway.  
> A bit more of Tsukki. He’s a character I really like to write about, even though most of time I feel like I’m getting an introspective version of him and forgetting the scenario. It may have happened here, too ( ~~why is so hard to write a conversation~~ ). Also, regarding how he feels about people around him... It's a bit (lot) complicated.
> 
> I proofread it, like, three times already, but I always manage to let something slip ~~because formatting is hell someone save me~~. If you find anything, please, tell me?
> 
> [also, a few tags were added. this chapter has a **potential trigger warning** for implied/referenced self-induced vomiting. please, beware]

He woke up one day to find out he didn’t know who he was anymore. Like the feeling you get when you first start to forget the dream you just had — a slight sense of loss, and confusion, yes, but mostly nothing.  


Nothing. That was what he felt when he stared at his own eyes in the mirror — absolutely nothing. There was something nagging at the back of his neck, telling him something was _missing_ , but he couldn’t figure out what. Didn’t even try to.  


It wasn’t that he was sad — he wasn’t. But for the first time in years he didn’t smile to his mother when she put the cereal bowl in front of him, her eyes soft and loving. For the first time in a while, he put on his earphones and didn’t as much as glance to Yamaguchi when the other boy talked to him.  


He had to fight off the numbness his body felt drowned in that day. It was a struggle to write down what the teachers said — he gave up. It was hard to try and pay attention to the classes — he gave up. His hands were cold when he came back, and yet, he couldn’t make himself hide them in his pockets, like he always did.  


Even the stuttering happiness (it was happiness, it felt like happiness) which used to make him twitch his lips upwards, just a tiny bit, when Yamaguchi smiled at him, didn’t show up (Yamaguchi smiled harder that day, his freckles showing on his crimson cheeks when he took Tsukishima’s hands in their own, and held them tightly — he was warm, but Tsukishima’s hands were still cold).  


He had thought his stomach would drop like it ever did when he and Yamaguchi had to go different ways on the road — it didn’t. He knew they would meet tomorrow, too, and the day after that, and the day after that — but Tsukishima still wondered what it would feel when, one day, he had to come home alone. He wondered how it would feel when he got to school and Yamaguchi wouldn’t look at him, smiling at other people, talking to other people, making the loving friends he always did deserve.  


Tsukishima watched his friend go, and wondered whether he would feel lonely — because he could be angry, too, he could hold tightly to Yamaguchi because he _hated it_ when Yamaguchi did stupid things (like leaving him behind). He would be frustrated for sure. But it was scary not to know if he would close himself off from everyone and tell the world he didn’t need anyone, anyway, or if he would hate himself from doing something so atrocious that made Yamaguchi leave him.  


He couldn’t find an answer. Tsukishima stared, he did, at the empty road for what felt like forever. No magic happened that afternoon — no words made their way into his head, no certain comfort, and Yamaguchi didn’t suddenly read all the feelings Tsukishima had been trying to find inside himself and came back.  
There was just him, and the cold.  


And then he started walking again, slowly, even though he didn’t feel like it, even though he knew there wasn’t going to be anyone home.  


That day, Tsukishima re-ordered his dinosaur figurines so many times he started feeling nauseous. Usually it made him calmer. But mom called him to diner, and his lips had trembled, and his hands started shaking, and his eyes started to sting.  


He went to eat anyway (when no one was looking, he hid in the bathroom and threw up until his stomach started aching).  


But he didn’t cry. Not when he hit his forehead in the sink in an attempt to wash his mouth from the disgusting taste in his tongue. Not when he bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Not when he clutched on to his chest, and his heart felt like it had been ripped apart.  


Tsukishima didn’t want to cry, and he didn’t cry. He stared at himself in the mirror again — and he saw nothing. Felt nothing.  


(it was like falling when you don’t know how deep is the hole, like falling when you can’t even see where you fell from — it was slipping through his fingers so fast, yet, Tsukishima couldn’t understand)  


And then he came back to his room, and sat in his bed, and stared at his (bony, bony) hands, and asked himself why he even tried.  


 

(Tsukishima woke up one day to realize what it meant not knowing how to move on with your life)  


xxx

Yamaguchi is the first one he sees, waiting on the usual spot where their paths cross, and Tsukishima can’t help the fondness that assaults him for a moment. He’s quick on drowning the feeling, as for he’s used to doing it often, but the soft warmness at the bottom of his heart remains.

Tsukishima hates it. Hates how, even after all the years they’ve been friends (friends, friends, not acquaintances, and he can’t understand how it can possibly be real), Yamaguchi still manages to make him feel like this. It’s not good. It could never be. He’s just _stupid_ , it’s just _stupid_ , and Yamaguchi doesn’t have the right to make him feel like this. Yamaguchi doesn’t have the fucking right — yet, here he is, waving animatedly while Tsukishima wishes he could come back inside home and swallow in the blessed numbness he’s been feeling since last vacation started. It’s just so much _easier_ than to deal with all the shit he knows he’ll have to face (it would be so much easier just to give up already).

“Hey, Tsukki!” he doesn’t answer, but Yamaguchi’s been hanging out with him for a whole five years; he knows better than to expect Tsukishima to be anything but grumpy this early in the morning. “Why didn’t you answer me yesterday? We could’ve gone buying materials together. It would’ve been fun.” for a moment he does seem disappointed. “But that’s okay! We have the whole day yet, after we finish classes! We could hang out after school, what do you think? Go to that CD store you like and look around.”

Tsukishima doesn’t really wishes to go anywhere after school — anywhere but home, this is. Even the prospect of buying new CD’s (music never tires him, it’s the only thing that never tires him) isn’t appealing enough, and that must say quite a lot about him. What kind of person can’t be passionate even when it’s about the things they like? Apparently, him.

“What class do you think you’ll be?” Yamaguchi continues, bringing Tsukishima back to reality.

 _Hopefully some that doesn’t have a lot of people_. Tsukishima shrugs. As long as they leave him alone, he doesn’t really care. It’s not like he’s searching for company, or friends, or anything. These kind of things are troublesome, and he’s too fucked up already — Tsukishima knows it’s not normal, he knows, deep down, that something about him is wrong ( _broken, broken, he’s broken_ ), he just can’t bring himself to care anymore.

Besides, dealing with others makes him ill. The obligation to talk, to open up, to bare his soul to strangers who most likely don’t even care about him; he doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need people to look at him sideways. He’s comfortable enough with hate, despise, with having others put him aside because h _e should think about the things he says or people might get the wrong idea_ , but _pity_ is something he’ll never swallow (never, ever, ever, ever).

“Have you thought about a club you want to be in already?”

The simple question is like a bucket of cold water. Tsukishima feels his body freezing, and Yamaguchi takes a few steps ahead before noticing no one’s walking with him anymore, and turning his head to look at him in reasonable confusion.

It’s stupid. Really, really stupid. But the word _volleyball_ dances at the tip of Tsukishima’s tongue, and he feels crushed under the weight of the raw truth.

Does he want it? After everything? It’s useless. Absolutely useless, and if Tsukishima really thinks he can play, he’s more of an idiot than he thought himself to be. What’s the use, anyway? There’s always someone stronger, someone better, and doesn’t matter how much you try, you won’t make it through. You’re going to be defeated, you’re going to fail, again, again, _again and again and again_.

Having hope has broken his brother’s heart, and it’ll break _his_ , too, if he lets it.

“Tsukki?”

Angry at himself for letting it get to him, Tsukishima starts walking again — just to stumble upon his own pacing as a wave of dizziness hits him.

 _Christ_. _His whole life is a fucking joke_.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Yamaguchi approaches him, his hand reaching to Tsukishima’s back, as if to hold him if anything happens (it won’t, it _won’t_ ).

Tsukishima shuts his eyes for a second and clenches his fists, suppressing the growing nausea. Something inside his head _hurts_ , as if someone’s hitting him repeatedly — it’s probably going to blow fully in a few hours, and leave him with headache for the rest of the day —, and his knees feel dangerously wobbly, as if his legs are going to give up.

(he’s so weak, so weak, pathetic, disgusting, _weak_ )

“Tsukki?” Yamaguchi’s voice is a tone lower than it was before. “Did you eat anything before leaving home?”

He says it like he’s telling a secret, and it’s on instinct that the “ _Shut up_ , Yamaguchi” leaves Tsukishima’s mouth, ruder than necessary. Tsukishima knows it’s not fair, but he never claimed to be nice — besides, it’s not Yamaguchi’s fucking business whether he’s been skipping meals or _what_.

Yamaguchi smiles softly at him, probably already used to it, before pushing his bag off his back and searching for something within it (Tsukishima _refuses_ to feel guilty, he refuses, it’s not his fault, he never asked for this, he never wanted this, Yamaguchi didn’t need to do anything, it wasn’t his obligation, nor his responsibility, and Tsukishima’s so _tired_ , so fucking tired, he just wants it to _stop_ ).

“Here”, apparently oblivious to his conflicting thoughts, Yamaguchi hands Tsukishima what looks like a square wrapped up on too much napkins. “I brought some toasts from home. I was planning on eating them during breaks, but we can share them now.”

 _Liar_. Tsukishima’s stomach twists painfully.

Yamaguchi hates it when his notebook gets dirty. Why would he wrap up any toast in a napkin and risk it to leave crumbs everywhere in his bag? Besides, he _never_ eats during break. _Liar, liar, liar_. Tsukishima wants to call him out on it — he hates it when people lie to him, and he hates it even more when _Yamaguchi_ lies to him —, but can’t build up the courage to do so.

(apparently, he can’t build up the courage to do a lot of things)

(he accepts the toast anyway)

  
  


 

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, and Tsukishima wants to throw up.

The toast was so _good_. Usually, whatever is that Yamaguchi brings him (he always shares, he always shares) tastes good, but this time — just the right amount of melted butter, the crispy edges, even the texture of the bread; it was still warm, and he was salivating the moment he bit it for the first time.

It feels so _wrong_. It feels so wrong, and he’s so fucking _selfish_ — because he had wanted to take it, a part of him craved for it, just like he craves for tiny bits of affection every day, even though he knows he does nothing to deserve Tadashi by his side. _He wasn’t even hungry_ , and it didn’t matter if Yamaguchi wasn’t going to eat it — it was still _his_ , and he wasn’t supposed to feel like he should be sharing his things just because… Just...

Tsukishima shuts his eyes, and his hands shake at his efforts not to hold on to his stomach as tightly as he can. It takes all he has not to stop there and then, midway, and puke out his guts.

 _Just make it stop. God, just make it stop_.

 

He doesn’t say anything, and Yamaguchi doesn’t say anything, but they both know.

(his friends eyes are sad, and it _hurts_ )

 

 

* * *

 

He manages to keep the food down.

For a while.

When they enter the school, the corridors are full of other new students, and, somehow, Yamaguchi manages to get lost ( _he refuses to think he was the one to run away, because he didn’t, didn’t, didn’t_ ) and before he can even think about it, Tsukishima’s feet carry him to a direction he knows to be completely different than the one he should be taking — his head hurts, his legs hurts, but he keeps walking, walking, walking, and the bathroom to where he goes is blessfully empty.

 

(his eyes sting, and his mouth still tastes bitter)

(Tsukishima tells himself it doesn’t matter)

 

Yamaguchi finds him anyway, because that’s what he always does. While Tsukishima washes his mouth (and the door is closed, the door is closed, how no one realized the door is closed yet?), Yamaguchi rests his hand at his back, motioning it softly, his lips hesitating over the words ( _it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s not okay_ ).

It brings no comfort at all, but Tsukishima isn’t going to tell him that.

 

(he’s almost afraid that one day he’ll push too hard and Tadashi will stop searching for him)

 

 

* * *

 

“What class did you get?” Yamaguchi tip toes, trying to see the paper sheet Tsukishima holds higher than his own vision line.

“Four.”

He can practically feel Yamaguchi beam with joy — “I got four, too!” — and he’s going to be damned if he tells himself if he’s not at least a tiny bit relieved. 3rd grade of Junior High was the only one where they didn’t get the same class, and boy, had that been ( _annoying, bad, terrifying, **lonely**_ ) a nightmare. Not having Yamaguchi by his side meant Tsukishima had to _socialize_ , to _talk_ to other people — people that usually stuck to the same phrases he’d heard too many times over his life, phrases that he couldn’t hate more than he already did.

( _he’s so tall — were his earphones expensive? — why doesn’t he smile? — jeez, he’s a meanie — how does one read his name, anyway? — is it Hotaru? — Tsukishima Hotaru-san? — will he play on the basketball team? — he should totally play on the basketball team._ )

Tsukishima had no patience to deal with that, and he didn’t want to. The same goes to the current situation — and it’s not like he’d been scared they would be on different classes again, no, he wasn’t, but deep down, he knows he doesn’t want to be alone. He wants Yamaguchi to be with him, because Yamaguchi isn’t hard to deal with, because he likes ( _oh, god, oh, god, god_ ) Yamaguchi, because it’s easier ( _to breath_ ) when Yamaguchi’s with him.

At least he’s not ( _being selfish_ ) alone on the thought; his friend looks just as relieved as him.

 

(all things considered, Tsukishima understands)

(he’s still haunted by Tadashi’s hollow eyes and bruised cheeks, sometimes)

 

 

* * *

 

Tsukishima doesn’t quite know what to do when the bell finally rings. Objectively, he should go to class, of course, but he doesn’t feel like doing it — Yamaguchi seems uncomfortable, too, passing his weight from one foot to another, and then prodding at his pockets, his lips twisting slightly, and it must be the first time through the day he shows how nervous he actually is.

The sight pulls something at Tsukishima’s chest. He’s good at reading most of people, but Yamaguchi’s always been something else entirely. In everything he does, finding out his reasons is hard — in the few times Tsukishima gets to see this side of him, this fragile part of Tadashi that normally doesn’t show, he’s at a loss as for what to do. Tsukishima’s never been an affectionate friend, and trying to show some kind of comfort surely would be embarrassing for both of them — so he does nothing but to stare at the floor himself, trying not to let his expression twitch in a scowl. Absentmindedly, his hands search for his pockets — and then, in the left one, he catches something.

Square wrapped in too many napkins, one of the toasts Tadashi shared with him is still there (Tsukishima’s heart feels heavier than it ever did).

 

“Yamaguchi.”

“Yes, Tsukki?”

“Do you want to share?”

 

(Yamaguchi’s eyes brighten and he smiles, and Tsukishima can’t help but to let his own lips turn slightly upwards, in a way he knows no one but his friend will realize it’s also smile)  


(it doesn’t feel like a lie — for the first time in what seems like forever… it feels... good)  


(he wouldn't mind that much getting used to the feeling)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A random thing before I forget: I have exams starting next week. This means... I'll (probably) be procrastinating in regards of writing stories and pretending I won't be curling up under my bed asking myself what I'm doing in the first chance I get.  
> It also means I have no idea when I'll be updating again, but I bet you already guessed that.  
> Though, I think this bimester won't be so stressful. ~~a person can always hope~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s so _hard_ — so hard to put a smile upon his face, to talk, to feel good, to be _okay_ —, and it’s so _tiring_ to be so sad all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I have no idea how this happened. I had the beginning of the chapter and it was something completely different than it is now — but then, in the middle of the thing my muse said something along the lines of "hey, but watch this", and I proceeded to write 2k words that are about... Kenma and Kuroo. They were supposed to show up later on, yes — but I am still confused as to how this happened.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I would like to thank every single one of you for commenting on the last chapter, and for not giving up on me, even though I tend to take eons to update. ~~someone please hit me I need to get my shit together~~
> 
> I hope this chapter won't disappoint you, specially after... Eight months? ~~I'm sorry.~~

Kenma was six, almost seven, when, one day, one Kuroo Tetsurou moved on to the next door. Kuroo was different — different than any other person Kenma had ever seen. Starting from his hair, which stuck to every possible direction, a part of it falling over his right eye, to the way he so enthusiastically started coming to Kenma’s house every other day and demand the younger boy to play with him.

See, Kenma had never been a people person. He wasn’t good at interacting with them, and he didn’t try to be. Yet, whenever Kuroo burst through his door, a smile on his face and a new game for them to try, Kenma felt happy. He felt happy because maybe he wasn’t good enough, maybe he didn’t try hard enough, maybe he came off as not caring about anything, but Kuroo never called him out on it. Kuroo, even though already good at pushing everyone’s buttons, never made him feel like he needed to be anyone, or anything, but himself.

Sometimes, this is the first thing that comes to Kenma’s mind when he wakes up. Because it’s so _hard_ — so hard to put a smile upon his face, to talk, to feel good, to be _okay_ —, and it’s so _tiring_ to be so sad all the time. But even when all he wants to do is to shut off the world, Kenma knows he’s not alone. He has Kuroo, with cat-like eyes and a beautiful smile and a soft heart (Kuroo, who thinks more than people give him credit for, who’s kind, who doesn’t ever push him to do things he really doesn’t want to, who lets Kenma rest his head in his shoulder whenever things don’t feel quite right — and Kuroo knows, because he always knows when it comes to Kenma), and he has a whole volleyball team who’s there to trust him even when he doesn’t trust himself.

He, then, wouldn’t call himself an unlucky person. More often than not, what Kenma has is enough to make him try again, even if he doesn’t feel like it.

(more often than not, it’s enough to make him think he’s _worth something_ )

 

* * *

Kuroo looked like he should own the world, or the galaxy, or, hell, the whole universe. Or — okay, maybe not really, but he sat at Kenma’s side by the bed with his stupid, stupid bed hair, and Kenma’s heart swelled up inside his chest.

For a while, there was only silence between them — silence except for the muffled action sounds coming from Kenma’s game. And Kenma could’ve lived like that forever — nothing but the only person who really got him and quietness, and the comforting feeling of the console in his hands —, but Kuroo was never one to let silence grow until it became uncomfortable, so he broke it, his voice low, so low Kenma (who wasn’t brave enough to look up to his best friend) could’ve pretended he didn’t even hear it.

“Is this the new game you were talking about that last time?”

_Are you okay_ , was what Kuroo seemed to ask. _Do you want to talk about it. Is it fine if I stay here with you_ . And Kenma knew the boy would leave him alone, if he wanted it. He knew Kuroo would leave without hesitating, without asking why, without demanding Kenma to tell him what was wrong — because it was easy like that, to Kuroo; especially when it came to Kenma. And he also knew Kuroo would be there the next day, to smile softly at him and try and talk about games again. Tentatively, quietly, so out of character of him — because Kuroo Tetsurou isn’t made to be quiet and insecure; he’s made to shine and smile and be loud and laugh, and he’s made to be happy (he wasn’t made to sit by Kenma’s side on days like that and pretend it didn’t hurt him, that the distance didn’t hurt him, that _Kenma_ didn’t hurt him).

Kenma wanted to tell him to go away.

“I’m tired”, he whispered instead, letting his head fall on Kuroo’s arm, and Kuroo hesitated for barely even a second before putting his hand over Kenma’s own shoulders, giving the boy time to get away if he wanted to (he didn’t).

It felt good — to have the soft warmness cradling up his body. Kenma didn’t feel cold, not particularly, and he knew it was selfish, but he embraced the warmness nonetheless — and Kuroo didn’t let go, his cheek resting on Kenma’s head, his eyes certainly closed, his fingers trembling slightly.

“I… I know.”

(he didn’t, really, but it wasn’t Kenma’s place to tell him otherwise)

 

* * *

Junior High was hell — in all possible senses of the word.

It wasn’t that Kenma _hated_ it — he couldn’t work himself up to do a thing as tiring as to hate —, but he certainly _despised_ it. The older guys who thought that having been born one or two years earlier gave them the right to act as if they were better than anyone, the fragmenting classes who made the whole school divide into groups according to things they had in common and dislikes, the teachers who kept trying to make him blend amidst the sea of blank faces and who kept judging him silently for every single thing he did — Kenma despised it all.

It was all just so, so stupid.

Knowing he would be alone in 3rd grade didn’t help. Kuroo was, quite possibly, the only thing that still made him get up every morning and go to train — get up every morning to face the same people he didn’t like, and who didn’t like him, either. The volleyball team didn’t even _need_ him, as for Kenma wasn’t fast, wasn’t strong, didn’t have the best stamina. He had a good game sense already, but what? He was just a kid, it wasn’t like they would let him play.

But Kuroo had been so enthusiastic about the whole thing, so stubborn on having Kenma to play by his side — Kenma couldn’t turn him down.

(not that time, not when everything felt bad enough already)

As Kenma’s whole life had been nothing but fate’s jokes, of course it could get worse.

It all happened in the middle of 2nd grade. He was 14 at time, and called in sick one day, the first time since childhood. That same day, Kuroo got into a fight with another kid, and came to Kenma’s house later that day with a split lip and a bruise starting to form on his cheek.

Not that Kenma could’ve helped him — he had always been a scrawny kid —, but seeing his best friend that way made his stomach drop.

Kuroo said nothing. His knuckles were red from places where the skin had been torn, and he kept furrowing his brows in a way Kenma, who had already known him for years then, knew that meant he was angry. He didn’t even flinch when Kenma touched his mouth with as much care as he could muster, a drop of blood staining his fingertips, asking quietly if it hurt.

Kuroo had always been a loud kid, but, that day, he was quiet.

 

Kenma didn’t think much of it that time. Kuroo wanted to be alone, so that was what Kenma would do: leave him alone. After all, his best friend always did respect when he wanted nothing but to stare at the walls in his bedroom in silence, or to play his games without having to say a word.

Eventually, though, he started getting uneasy. Kuroo started getting distant. And that was the first time since they met that they willingly spent so much time apart. It wasn’t that Kenma didn’t try — he didn’t care about a lot of things, but he did care about Kuroo —, it was just that Kuroo wouldn’t let him get closer.

It was the only time they fought. It wasn’t pretty, it didn’t felt good, and Kenma didn’t know whether to be mad at himself for not doing something before, or to be mad at Kuroo for not trusting him enough to talk about whatever was that was bothering him (he could doubt a lot of things, but if there was one thing he should never doubt, was Kenma’s loyalty and love for him).

Kuroo seemed frustrated, and his hands trembled. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did Kenma, but it still just managed to make things worse. But when he finally snapped, turning away, his feet starting to drag him out of Kenma’s room, Kenma did hold his hand, his chest heavy, his eyes burning.

He felt as if the ground had been stolen from under his feet. He felt like he couldn’t breath. But more than that — he felt sad because _Kuroo_ was sad, and _he didn’t know what to do_.

“I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”, were the words that left his mouth.

And Kuroo’s shoulder had slumped. And he didn’t say anything — none of them did —, but when Kenma hugged him, hiding his face in Kuroo’s back, Kuroo didn’t push him away.

 

(“Kenma”, he had whispered later. “Would you still love me if I was broken?”)

(“Yes”, Kenma had answered. _Yes, yes, yes_.)

(“You’re not broken”, he had wanted to say, but he didn’t — because he knew that sometimes you don’t need people to tell you you’re wrong; you just need them to tell you they’ll be there no matter what)

 

Kenma didn’t ask about it after that day. He knew Kuroo would come around, eventually, when he felt comfortable enough to do so.

And it was okay.

It was okay.

 

(3rd grade was still hell, and he wanted to leave the volleyball team)

(Kuroo convinced him that it was still worth it, and Kenma didn’t)

 

* * *

One week before High School started, Kuroo came to Kenma’s house late afternoon, and he was more anxious than Kenma had ever seen him. There was a brief moment in which Kenma felt his chest tighten, worry washing over him — but then Kuroo lifted his eyes to face him, and tried a smile, and he knew that for the time being, there wasn’t any reason to be scared.

They went to Kenma’s room in silence, and when Kenma sat on his bed, Kuroo sat beside him.

“Will you be okay?” — was the exact phrase that left Kuroo’s lips. There was so much more, though, so much more (in how his hands gripped his knees and his eyes glance briefly at Kenma before settling on something else and then coming back, in the heavy line of his shoulders and his dry lips, his furrowing brows, the deliberate calmness of his tone — “will you be okay” he had asked, when everything in him screamed _i don’t want to go i want to stay let me stay i want to be by your side let me stay let me let me_ , and things Kenma couldn’t possibly start to decipher — things he didn’t know if he could, secrets carved deep down Kuroo’s soul, hidden from curious prying eyes).

“... Yeah. Yeah, I will.” it wasn’t just an answer — when it came to this, it never was.

_I will hang on. Alone. It’s okay. Go. I’ll be here still. Don’t be afraid. It’ll be okay._

 

(the rest of the year was spent thinking of that night — of promises he didn’t want to break, and how something was left unsaid)

 

* * *

On his first year of High School, Kuroo’s second, Kenma finally understood — the secret, the secret Kuroo tried so hard to hide, to protect, to avoid and erase, erase, erase.

 

There was this boy who used to come to watch the training of the team —  a year older than Kuroo, bright smiles, dark red hair, a deep voice —, and Kenma didn’t mind him much; not until the day he found he and Kuroo both kissing in the locker rooms.

And everything clicked into place. And Kenma wondered why didn’t he ever realize — why didn’t he ever think about it —, when he was said to be so observant, so good at reading people, so good at guessing them — wondered why couldn’t he even see this if Kuroo Tetsurou was his best friend since he could remember.

Kuroo noticed him first, and his immediate reaction was to push the other boy off of him, his eyes widening.

(“Kuroo?... Oh. Right. I will... Leave you two alone to… Talk.”)

Kenma didn’t feel betrayed. He knew. He looked at his best friend’s face, and he knew — the anxiety, the self-loathing, the fear of judgement, of what others would think or say. Kenma knew how Kuroo felt — like he didn’t belong, like he was wrong, like he was _broken_ because he _didn’t fit_ , because he _couldn’t accept himself_.

“Kenma, I‒ I can explain.” Kuroo’s expression didn’t change. His voice sounded tense. Kenma didn’t want to let him jump to wrong conclusions, not when he knew that it was most likely for Kuroo to think of the worst possibilities first, but the other was fast to beat him. “I’m sorry. I’m, I really am, I just‒ I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore but, please‒ I’m sorry.”

“Kuroo.” Kenma wanted to hold him. To protect him from himself, to protect him from _the world_ — nevermind Kuroo was almost seven inches taller than him. “It’s okay.”

_It’s okay. I still love you. You’re not broken. You’re my best friend._

There was a moment of hesitation.

“Ain’t you… Ain’t you disgusted?”

Kuroo sounded almost afraid to be hopeful. As if Kenma could ever — as if he _would_ ever — turn his back on him.

He couldn’t deny, he _was_ a little freaked out — not because he saw Kuroo kissing _another boy_ , though, but because Kuroo was _his best friend_ , and Kenma didn’t want to see _Kuroo kissing_ (he could barely stand his _own parents_ being all lovey-dovey, he _definitely didn’t want to know about the taste of someone’s lips, thank you very much_ ).

“No. I’m not.” it was true — it always was when it came to Kuroo.

 

(Tetsurou held him tighter than he’d ever had before, his arms around Kenma, and he _shook_ )

(Kenma made him promise to never keep secrets again — not if he was hurting)

 

(when the year ended, so did Kuroo’s relationship — Kenma spent an entire night cuddled right beside his best friend, his arms around Kuroo’s waist, hearing him talk about his ex-boyfriend — how _happy_ he was, how _sad_ he was, where did they go _wrong_ , where did they go _right_ )

 

xxx

 

It’s six and something in the morning when the knock comes. Kenma rises from his sitting spot — the ground — to open the door and reveal Kuroo and his usual bedhair.

(There’s no hesitance in his smile. No nervousness at the way his hands hold his bag. No fear underneath the glint in his eyes.)

“Ready?” Kuroo asks.

Kenma blinks at him for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. He is.

  
(with Kuroo by his side, he muses, he would probably be ready for anything)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't even say anything anymore. The next chapter (which I had started before the muse said hello) is at 200 words only, and I have no idea how long it'll take for me to finish it. I'm sorry.


End file.
